


Matchups

by aura_is_purple



Category: Pitch (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Post-Canon Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-21
Updated: 2016-10-21
Packaged: 2018-08-23 17:51:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8337160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aura_is_purple/pseuds/aura_is_purple
Summary: If only 16 year old Ginny could know she had Mike Lawson in her bathtub, who knows how she would have reacted. Probably disbelief and shock and then hearts in her eyes. For mid-twenties Ginny, it’s just another in a long line of weirdness that’s come out of her ascent to the show.





	

Ginny Baker has her hotel ritual down to a science. The thing about being on the road for half of an entire season, year after year, is that you have to think of the room as home.

 

The nice thing about the major leagues is the upgrade from motel to hotel. And being the only woman on the team means she never has to share, though this can be a bit lonely. The comradery her teammates have with their roommates can be enviable when you need a distraction from the thoughts you can’t avoid-- like starting in an unfamiliar stadium against an entirely unfamiliar team of hungry underdogs.

 

The towels are softer, the minibar actually exists, and the fluffy hotel robe is nearly always hanging in the closet waiting for her whether she’s in Cincinnati or St. Louis.

 

First Ginny unpacks her suitcase and turns on the TV. Living out of a suitcase is the most depressing thing about being on the road so hers gets banished to the closet as soon as possible. If there’s a beer in the minibar she’ll crack that open and get into the robe, then do one frivolous thing, like put on a face mask or moisturize her entire body to relax.

 

She’s in beer and HBO mode now, preparing to give herself a pedicure. It’s important for athletes to take care of their feet, you see.

 

Tonight it’s the medium fancy Marriott in Pittsburgh, in the middle of a 9 game road trip. She’s starting tomorrow, and is having trouble relaxing her way into her night-before hotel rituals when there’s a knock on the door.

 

Ginny checks her phone. Usually her management team texts before they visit her room, but there’s nothing but a calendar reminder to get her teeth cleaned (which will definitely be ignored for another few months until the season is over because her flossing is just fine, thank you).

 

Ginny wraps the robe tighter around herself to cover her tank top and flannel pajama bottoms and gets up to answer the door, figuring it’s Coach or someone telling her to turn down Fever Pitch.

 

She cracks the door open, and it’s only Lawson in track pants and the dugout sweatshirt.

 

“Good evening, Baker.” He raises the six pack in his hands as a greeting.

 

“Evening.” 

 

“Can I come in?”

 

Ginny is rather flummoxed-- she hasn’t had any late night visitors since the time in San Francisco when two guys from the bullpen kidnapped her and made her dress up as Princess Leia for a team dinner. The other rookies were all Star Wars characters, including the backup catcher who really went for it as Han Solo In Carbonite.

 

Ginny pokes her head out into the hallway, appraising it for other conspirators. “This isn’t another prank, is it?”

 

Lawson raises an eyebrow at her. “Do I look like I’m in a pranking mood?

 

He’d had a rather rough game, taking a few foul tips to his body and they still lost. She lets him in and closes the door behind him. The six pack becomes a four pack and Mike makes himself comfortable in the desk chair, resting his sneakered feet on the edge of the bed she’s sitting on.

 

“Wow, this place looks like a spa.”

 

Ginny looks around at her single candle burning and her toiletries spread out by the TV. “You haven’t been to a lot of spas, then.”

 

He tips more beer back in an agreeing sort of gesture. A moment passes and Ginny peels the label off her beer a bit. It’s local, and tastes summery.

 

“Can I help you with something, Mike?”

 

He leans back in his chair a bit and considers her. “What are you wearing?”

 

“Don’t talk shit about the robe. It’s an important part of my road ritual.”

 

“My road ritual usually involves hiding the remote from Jorge and icing my knees. He always wants to watch Golden Girls reruns and I’d rather do lunges in my short shorts.”

 

Ginny pulls a face and he laughs into his beer.

 

“I’m here to talk scouting reports, actually.”

 

“The coaching staff has you covered there, Lawson. I’ve been studying this since my last start.”

 

“The bullpen guys have their own thing going on. I’m talking about your head game.”

 

She pulls another face. He must have had more beers than just this if he’s calling it that. 

 

“No, not that head game, rook. Get your mind out of the gutter.” He puts his feet on the ground and meets her eyes across the bed. 

 

“You mean psyching myself up?”

 

“Yeah, sure, if you want to call it that. I just want you to know that just because this team is young and hungry, doesn’t mean they can school you.”

 

“I know that.”

 

“Your screw is gonna school them, if you can hit your corners. And if you throw the pitches I call.”

 

“You gotta know I can’t promise that, Mike.”

 

He sighs deeply and throws back the rest of his beer. “Can you get me another one of these?”

 

She rolls her eyes deeply for his benefit and hands him another beer. “As long as you don’t mind if I get some stuff done.”

 

He flips off the bottle cap with his bare hand. “Like what?”

 

“I have my rituals.”

 

“Oh, really.”

 

Ginny gets up and digs through her toiletries. “I was planning on giving myself a pedicure tonight.”

 

Mike laughs, surprised. “This is a first for me. One pitcher from my rookie year used to trim his nose hairs while we did this.”

 

“It won’t be as gruesome as that, I promise.”

 

“Do your thing, Baker.”

 

He continues telling her about the hirsute relief pitcher while she runs the bathwater and dumps some bath salts in. The room smells like lavender and hops.

 

“What’s this have to do with your feet?” he asks, as she’s rolling up her pajama bottoms and stepping into the tub.

 

“This is the most important step, old man. You gotta soften everything up and make everything smell all relaxing, you know?”

 

“No, I don’t.”

 

“Come on.” She’s feeling daring. And also maybe wants an anecdote for the book that she’ll probably have ghostwritten in 20 years or so.

 

“What, me? No.”

 

“Come on, it won’t kill you to relax a little.”

 

“Nah, that kind of stuff isn’t for me.”

 

“Are you afraid your penis will fall off?”

 

He narrows his eyes at her, and she smiles back.

 

“As long as you don’t tell anyone.”

 

Ginny crosses her heart, and hopes to die. “It’ll be good for that foul tip you took to the toe.”

 

She can barely believe how easily this is happening. He’s pulling off his pumas and rolling up his track pants, and she’s making more room for him in the bathtub. There’s a huge bruise on the top of his left foot, and she winces.

 

He shrugs. “All part of the job.”

 

They’re standing in the warm lavender water, and Ginny feels tiny. He’s dwarfing her, at least until he sits on the edge of the bathtub and slumps against the tile.

 

“This actually feels really nice.”

 

“See? Your masculinity will emerge from this intact, I promise.”

 

Ginny climbs out of the water and dries off her feet, and he watches her. “Now it’s time to moisturize. I’ll spare you the pumice stone.”

 

“My ex wife had one of those. The rock thing?”

 

“Yep.”

 

He wiggles his toes in the water and sets his beer in the niche for the tiny shampoo bottles while she finds her shea butter. If only 16 year old Ginny could know she had Mike Lawson in her bathtub, who knows how she would have reacted. Probably disbelief and shock and then hearts in her eyes.

 

For mid-twenties Ginny, it’s just another in a long line of weirdness that’s come out of her ascent to the show.

 

“I think I’m ready for the next step. I can’t stand getting all pruney.”

 

“Ice water baths must be shitty for that.”

 

“You know it.”

 

Mike’s climbing out of the bathtub and Ginny hears the creaks and moans of his knees, like going up the stairs in an old house. She tries to keep her wincing to herself and hands him a towel.

 

“Lube me up, 43.”

 

“Don’t let the guys hear you say that more than once,” she says, her voice full of mirth as she hands over the lotion.

 

“Don’t you tell them I said that. I’m keeping my eyes on you.”

 

She pads back over to the bed and pulls out her nail polish. “Sure thing, old man.”

 

She’s done with her base coat by the time he’s out of the bathroom, as he’d taken the time to moisturize his legs too. “This just smells really nice, and the east coast air makes me all dry.”

 

“Sure, Mike.”

 

He’s back in the desk chair with his beer, his bare feet resting on the edge of the bed again. His feet really are gigantic compared to hers. She lets this thought pass without further comment.

 

“You know some catchers wear those decals on their fingernails, so the signs are easier to read?”

 

Ginny opens up a bottle of navy blue polish. “I know. I always thought it was kind of silly. If your pitcher can’t read the signs, they must not be looking hard enough.”

 

Mike sits there watching her paint as he thinks for a bit. “It’s weird to think that so much of my professional life is about people staring deeply into my groin, you know?”

 

Ginny can’t help herself. She laughs so hard she almost defiles the white bed covers with Padre Blue. He seems to enjoy her reaction, watching her laugh with relish as he fiddles with his beer bottle.

 

“It’s nice to see you smiling, for once.”

 

“I actually laugh a lot, to myself. And maybe at you, when you’re not looking.”

 

He smiles but it doesn’t meet his eyes. “You know you don’t really have to be intense all the time, right?”

 

Ginny switches to her other foot and continues painting and avoiding eye contact. “That’s pretty easy for you to say. They already don’t take me seriously.”

 

“Let them. Because the idiots who don’t take you seriously deserve what they get. The hitters, the coaches, the tv commenters. Let them underestimate you, like they underestimate west coast baseball. They should take you as seriously as a fucking heart attack, but they won’t. And that’s when we’ll pounce on them.”

 

“We?”

 

“I’m sorry, did you think you were doing this alone?” He says this with a smile and a glint in his eyes, and the 16 year old inside Ginny flushes, just for a moment.

 

“Thanks Mike. I really couldn’t do this without you, you know.”

 

“I do know. Because the balls would go straight to the backstop and the ump’s kneecaps if I wasn’t there,” he jokes, and they laugh together this time.

 

Ginny repositions herself on the edge of the bed, her chin resting on her bent knee to reach her left pinkie toe. His bare feet are just inches away from her hand that’s holding the open bottle. She contemplates this proximity briefly and meets his eyes.

 

“Don’t you dare, rookie.”

 

Ginny moves quickly, grabbing his right foot and holding his toes steady as he tries to squirm away. He relents enough for her to get quick and sloppy coverage of his big toenail before he pulls his feet back under his chair and out of her reach. “See, that wasn’t so bad. And now your big toe has team spirit.”

 

“I’ll be sure to alert the fans of this as soon as possible.”

 

“Who knows? Maybe this painted toenail is the push we need to beat the Pirates tomorrow.”

 

Mike leans back in his chair and admires her handiwork. “I’ve heard of more embarrassing superstitions, but this one would have to be top secret. Ok?”

 

“10-4.”

 

They lapse into a companionable silence while they both wait for their coats of color to dry. Ginny drinks more of her beer and Mike strokes his beard absently. Ginny wonders briefly what the beard would feel like against her sensitive skin, but just academically. She files this thought away into the compartment it belongs inside, for another time. 

 

Ginny has just finished up her top coat when Mike yawns dramatically. “It must be these fumes and that lavender. I could pass out right here.”

 

“Please don’t. I don’t want to have to explain stuff to the press tomorrow.”

 

“I gotta get back, anyway. Jorge will worry if I stay out too late,” he says, sardonically.

 

Ginny gets up and offers him a hand getting out of his chair. “I’m stronger than I look.’

 

He takes her hands in both of his and lets her pull him up, holding her wrists for just a few seconds longer than strictly necessary. “I know.”

 

They make eye contact for a long moment, and he drops her hands to pick up his shoes off the floor. She’ll feel the imprint of his fingers long after he’s left.

 

He creaks his way over to the door. “Sleep tight, rook. And remember that Jacobs is a sucker for a change-up.”

 

“I know. We’ll get him tomorrow.”

 

“Goodnight.”

 

“Goodnight, Mike.”

 

***

**Author's Note:**

> This fic exists because Pitch has taken over my fangirl brain, primarily. But I also needed to write something to eradicate the wrong of the idea that liking baseball and feminine things (like nail polish) are mutually exclusive. I love both things, and I often enjoy both of them at the very same time. //End soap box rant! (follow me for more incoherent ramblings at auraispurple.tumblr.com) 
> 
> Thanks to bubblegirljulz for the encouragement and fairytiger for the beta and the friendly peer pressure :)


End file.
